Say Something (And I'll Stay)
by Princess-Warrior 17
Summary: "Anywhere I would've followed you. Say something, I'm giving up on you." Freddie would have given up everything for Sam, if she had just told him how she felt. She only needed to say three words. But with Sam, things were never that simple.


**A/N:**

_Inspired by the song, "Say Something", this one-shot expresses the beauty of love and the tragic nature of loss. Despite the depressing notes of the music and the overall message of the song, my story is not full of angst. The ending is not so bad, I promise. This is an AU, so Sam and Freddie never dated; the Seddie arc does not exist here. _

_Dedicated to __**Moviepal**__, whose encouragement and support has kept me going. If it wasn't for him, I'm not sure I'd still be writing for the iCarly fandom. Thank you, my friend, for everything. _

**Disclaimer:**

_I do not own iCarly; all of its amazing characters belong to Dan Schneider. "Say Something" is the property of A Great Big World (feat. Christina Aguilera). _

* * *

**Say Something (And I'll Stay)**

* * *

**August 9, 2013**

Despite the warmth of the night, Sam Puckett sat shivering in the darkness. She pulled her cardigan tightly around herself, hoping that it would help contain her body heat. Exhaling slowly, she tilted her head up towards the midnight sky, which twinkled with shining stars. Normally, she would have enjoyed the view, but tonight her mind was a million miles away.

There was so much she wanted to say. She wanted to stand on top of the highest building and let all of Seattle know exactly she was thinking. But, she _couldn't._The words: the sweet, beautiful words that had formed in her mind could never leave. They were caught in her throat, dying away. The pain was unbearable at times; she felt like screaming when the words attempted to crawl up her throat but couldn't make their way for an escape.

Sam _hated _being inarticulate. From the time she was child, she could never express how she truly felt. She could say things in her head—things that would shock some people. Her head was her sanctuary; it was the one place she could pour her soul into. Sometimes, she longed for the capability to read minds. Then, people could read her mind and put her out of her misery. She wished they just knew what she wanted to say,instead of asking her and waiting for a reply that would never come.

If asked how she felt about something, she would ignore the question. And if pressed for further information, she would lie through her teeth to protect herself. It was frightening how good she was at lying; if forced to undergo a polygraph test, she knew she could pass easily. People believed her, too, which was the worst part. More often than not, her sentiments were false, and she liked to keep it that way. She constantly talked herself out of feeling guilty because she knew she was only helping others in the end. She convinced herself that they _didn't_ want to know the real her. Besides, the only grains of truth were embedded into her mind, where they were safely locked away.

Of course, she never had any issues giving scathing remarks. Those were second nature to her; when she didn't have anything helpful to add to a conversation, a witty or biting response was her specialty. It wasn't as if she was mute. She could obviously speak, but expressing her deepest feelings was nearly impossible for her.

It was because of this that she was alone in a park tonight, instead of in the arms of the person she loved the most. It was ironic, really, how she wound up in this situation. She had never had a problem detailing her first impressions about him. Hell, she called him every foul word in the dictionary at some point or another. She belittled him, mocked him, and said the cruelest things imaginable to his face.

But, the day she realized that they had been dancing around each other for nearly five years, she stopped the awful banter. She quit lashing out at him, knowing that if she continued, she would someday push it too far. Because of her ability to rattle off whatever she felt like, she was aware that she was capable of saying something so indescribably horrible that he would never speak to her again. She couldn't risk it. She wasn't nice to him, per se, but she wasn't nearly as malicious.

From that moment on, all she could feel was fear around him. She feared how he saw her and how he felt about her. Gone were the easy and sarcastic remarks, the ever-present light punches and playful slaps, and the simply childish attitudes. Replacing those were feelings of doubt and confusion. Sam _hated _it. She absolutely detested fear, but it grew and grew, coiling in her stomach, snaking its way through her entire body. She felt like it was going to consume her; like it was poison weaving its way in her veins.

Glancing around at the quaintness of the area around her, Sam decided that she wasn't going to move anytime soon. She gently lay down in the grass, stretching out. Her gaze remained focused on the sky, twinkling with those beautiful stars. As her eyes drifted from one sparkling dot to another, she thought about how stars usually represented wishes and hope. She smiled bitterly to herself. Oh, how false all of that was.

She wasn't a firm believer in hope. She had hoped all of her life that when the time came and she had found the right one, she could tell him she loved him in a million different ways. When in reality, it was torture having these feelings and not being able to say them aloud. That in itself was more bothersome to her than knowing that she was in love with him. Recognizing her feelings had been a battle, one that she had fought hard in.

It wasn't any one event or circumstance that induced her epiphany. It took so much time that Sam lost count. After several years of denial, frustration, anger, and naivety, she finally understood that the blooming ache in her chest was really love in its rawest form.

The most tragic part was that there was nothing she could do. Even if she could have vocalized her feelings, tonight was the last night he was going to be in Seattle. First thing in the morning, he would be on plane, flying across the country to Massachusetts Institute of Technology. She wasn't sure if she'd ever see him again after that; they hadn't spoken of it all summer. It was a topic both parties avoided, one that they had danced around, just like had danced around each other.

She closed her eyes briefly, allowing memories to flit in and out of her mind. The summer had been amazing—the best one Sam had ever had. She, Carly, and Freddie had spent every moment together, trying to soak up all the sun and warmth that they could. They had visited the ocean many times, done some traveling (they made their way to Chicago, NYC, and Orlando), and visited all of Seattle's ice cream and coffee shops.

But, at the end of each day, Sam's stomach twisted into knots at the thought of her best friends leaving. She knew that she was the only one staying; Carly had been accepted into Colombia College for both journalism and theatre, and Freddie was off to M.I.T. to major in computer science. As for Sam…she chose to remain in Washington to attend the University of Washington. Unlike Carly and Freddie, she had no idea what to do with her life. She planned on exploring, but it was difficult to be footloose and fancy free when both of her friends were so determined in their areas of study.

A sudden shift next to her caused her eyelids to flutter open. A dark shadow loomed over her body, but the face was clear as day.

"Sam," he breathed, kneeling down. "What are you doing here?"

"Needed to think," she responded vaguely, her eyes never straying from the sky. She knew the moment they did, they would encounter his concerned gaze.

"Oh? Care to share?" His voice held notes of amusement. He lay down beside her, mirroring her actions by turning his eyes upward.

"No."

"Well, you're talkative tonight." The humor was meant to be there, but it didn't sound the slightest bit funny.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, stifling the otherwise pleasant night air. Neither Sam nor Freddie was willing to break it. Instead, they lay there, underneath the stars, lost in their own thoughts. After what seemed like a century, Freddie rolled over so that he was facing Sam.

Propping his head up on his elbow, he gave her an exasperated look. "Isn't there something you want to say to me? Anything at all?"

She didn't meet his eyes. "Nope."

"Sam," he repeated, the agitation evident in his tone. "Please say something."

"What do you want me to say?"

He sat up, straightening his shirt. "Anything. I need to hear your voice," he pleaded, and even in the dim lighting, Sam could tell that his eyes were full of sadness. He took a minute to reiterate his request. In a slightly more demanding voice, he said, "Tell me why you've been acting so distant lately. I mean, you've hung out with Carly and I every day since summer started, but you haven't really smiled in the last couple of weeks. You're quieter than usual. And every time I've looked you in the eye, you've looked away. Tell me what's wrong."

Suspicion immediately wove its way into Sam's mind. Rising from her position in the grass, she cautiously asked, "Why do you want to know?"

Freddie sighed. "Because I care, Sam."

Shrugging, Sam chose to remain silent. She picked at the frayed ends of her jeans, tugging gently on material.

Blowing an impatient breath through his nose, Freddie urged, "You need to say something, Sam. I can't take the silence anymore. I need to know what's going on in your head. How can I help you when you won't let me in?"

Sam seemed equally as frustrated. Tilting her chin up in defiant manner, she retorted, "There's nothing for you to help with. Now, answer my question, why do _you _care?"

"You know the answer to that question."

It took less than a second for Sam to figure it out.

"Tomorrow." The one word made them both cringe.

"Yes, exactly."

Gesturing wildly with her hands, Sam muttered, "Freddie, I can't explain it in a way that will make sense to you."

"Why can't you? If you just _try,_ I'm sure I'll understand."

Sam shook her head, hating how the words were failing her. "I can't tell you what you want to know. I'm sorry."

"You have to. You just need to get the words out. Because I—" He stopped, leaving off in midsentence.

"You what?"

He swallowed. "I need to know something."

She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

He paused, forcing a breath out of himself. His voice faltered slightly as he said, "I need to you know if you love me."

Sam couldn't breathe. Her throat felt like it had closed up and no oxygen seemed to flow through. Her fingers reflexively grasped at the grass blades, trying to find some anchor.

"Please, Sam. I need to know if you do because it changes everything."

She managed to cough up one word. "How?"

His shoulders visibly tensed and his jaw locked into place. "If you do love me, then I'll stay. I'll find a way to tell M.I.T. that I'm not going. We have been dancing around each other for five years, and I can't do it anymore. Not like this."

A mirthless laugh left her mouth. "Now you tell me."

"Sam!" Freddie snapped, his voice thunderous in the quiet night. "It's not funny. I just told you how I felt. Now's not the time to crack jokes." His eyes blazed with a mixture of anger, confusion, and pain.

Instead of countering with a sarcastic comment, she said softly, "You had to tell me tonight of all nights. Your timing couldn't be any worse."

He stared back at her helplessly, the guilt prominent in his facial features. "I know. And I'm sorry for that. It took me this long to come to terms with how I felt. I had to look beyond the fights, the arguments, the insults, and the physical abuse to find what I was looking for. It took me five years to realize that I'm in love with you." He spoke the last portion adamantly, but in a whisper. "I need to know what you're thinking, Sam. I can't do this alone."

Sam couldn't stop herself. She chuckled lowly, in the most heart-breaking way. "Freddie, this isn't a Disney movie. You can't just say things like that. You are _not _giving up M.I.T. for me. You've worked so hard, and _nothing _should deter you from your dreams. Don't think for a second that I'm going to be okay with that."

Groaning, Freddie pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why does everything have to be such a battle with you? You are _infuriating_…"

Scoffing, Sam rolled her eyes. "This is coming from the guy who just pledged his love for me?"

"Yes," he replied vehemently. "Because, even though you drive me _insane_, I'm still in love with you. And I know that this isn't a Disney movie. I never said it was. We aren't going to ride off into the sunset and live 'happily ever after.' That is so _not _us." He paused to laugh. "We are going to fight, you're probably going to hit me a time or two, and then we'll make up. But, please, tell me that you want this as much as I do. Tell me that you love me, too." He closed his eyes, his breath hitching.

Sam started to panic, her heart racing in her chest. She knew she couldn't put off the inevitable any longer.

"I _can't_, Freddie. I can't—"

"You can't what?" He grabbed onto one Sam's hands instinctively, hoping that maybe the contact would urge her to talk. Instead, all he felt was how cold and dead her hands were. They were lifeless.

Before Sam knew what was happening, hot tears leaked from her eyes. She had kept them at bay all night, but now, they seemed ready to be released. Reaching up with her other hand to try and brush the tears away, she felt more of them springing free. Blinding shame coursed through her, and more than anything, she desperately wished to hide her face.

"I can't. God, I just _can't_**. **There's so much I want to say, Freddie, but I can't. I can't say the words that you want to hear. They won't—they won't leave," she managed to choke out, pointing to her throat to signal how trapped the words were.

"Shh…Sam. Shh…it's okay," Freddie murmured gently, sliding closer to try and wrap his arms around her in a comforting hug. He didn't get very far before Sam pushed him away.

"I have to go," she blurted, shakily getting up from the ground.

"Wait, Sam!" Freddie called out. "Please, tell me what's going on."

"I can't. There's no amount of explaining that can help. I just—I have to go. I'm so sorry, Freddie." She gave him an empty look, one that chilled his bones. The look could only be described as dead, like the life had been sucked out of her.

She gazed at him for a moment and then turned to flee. She didn't give a backwards glance as she disappeared from sight. She ran harder than she had ever run before, but it was hard to keep up a steady pace when more tears decided to blind her. She kept on going, unaware of where she was headed. She hoped she'd run into the abyss—that a black hole would swallow her up.

She willed herself to forget how utterly heart-broken and depressed Freddie looked. Her insides swelled with guilt for having done that to him. Sadly, that was the last image she'd have of him for another twenty years.

* * *

**August 9, 2033**

Freddie Benson anxiously waited in line with three books gripped firmly in his hands. His heart was thundering in his chest, almost loud enough that everyone behind him could hear it. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, finding it difficult to stand properly. It was ridiculous how nervous he was; he hadn't felt this way in years.

When he had flown into New York City to check on the New York branch of Pear, he certainly wasn't expecting to meet his favorite author of all time. Apparently, she had agreed to do a last minute book signing at the largest_ Barnes and Noble_ in the city. Her agent announced this piece of information on her official website, as well as in a column in the _New York Times._ As soon as Freddie caught wind of it, he knew he couldn't give up an opportunity to see her.

There was just something…so compelling about her work. Her writing was magical; every single printed word one each page affected him. She had the ability to make him scream out in anger, pace in frustration, smile in complete happiness, or shed unexpected tears. He had never been as influenced by anything written as he was by her work. He had been following her avidly since he'd discovered her first novel while wandering in a bookstore in San Francisco, the city where he resided now.

The depth of her language and plot lines was something he couldn't comprehend. He had no idea how she was able to construct such beautiful stories. He could never imagine himself sitting at a computer, day in and out, pushing words from his mind to the screen. Freddie himself wasn't eloquent or good with words. He was envious of anyone who could portray their thoughts on paper.

On the inside, his nerves felt jittery and his stomach roiled with nausea. More than anything, he hoped he wouldn't mess this up. He had dreamed about meeting this mystery woman since he had read, _The Raging Storm, _her first novel. What was interesting was that he had never seen what she looked like. He knew she promoted her books a fair amount, but she didn't include a picture of herself in any of the books. Her face didn't appear in the many magazine and newspaper articles written about her, either. She really _was_ a mystery, and he couldn't wait to figure her out.

It wasn't a surprise that he had a bit of a crush on her, despite his steady relationship with his fiancée, Anna. Freddie decided that what Anna didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Besides, it was a harmless crush—one that was based on admiration, rather than of actual attraction.

"Next."

_Oh, God._ He thought to himself. _I finally get to meet her. _

He took a long, drawn out breath and made himself move so that he stood in front of her. Once his brown eyes landed on her, a jolt went through him. It couldn't be.

Sitting across from him was a woman in a black A-line skirt and a royal blue chiffon blouse. Her pin-straight, chestnut brown hair fell past her shoulders in luscious layers, looking softer than angel wings. Her cream-and-roses skin was flawless—it glowed with beauty and youth, even though she was in her late thirties. But, it was her _eyes_ that caught his attention. They were the deepest blue possible, so deep that even the ocean couldn't compare. They were framed by thick, long lashes. He couldn't help himself—he even glanced at her lips, which looked gentle in a pale pink color.

He was too busy staring at her to react quickly to her comment.

"What's the CEO of Pear doing here?" she asked, quirking a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

His breath hitched in this throat. "_You're_ Britannica Rosewood?"

She quietly chuckled, shooting him an amused smile. "Of course. That's what's on the cover of all the books, is it not?"

"But, _how_? You—you're—"

She gave a patient sigh, smiling kindly. "Yes, I am Britannica Rosewood. Sir, I am completely flattered that you are a little star struck Believe me, I'm flattered. However, there are many people in line behind you. If you wish to speak to me on a more personal level, please send me a letter, or an email. If you must, call my agent." She pointed to a man behind her, decked out in a full suit, a slight frown on his face. "It was a pleasure meeting you." She hurriedly grabbed his books from him, opened the cap of her pen, and scrawled in each, taking more time to write in the first one than the rest. As soon as she finished, she shoved them back in his hands and motioned towards the door. "Thank you for visiting me."

Blinking in confusion, Freddie stumbled out of the way and headed in the direction to leave. He shook his head, not quite believing what had just happened. Sighing to himself, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the crisp, autumn air of New York City.

He began walking, unsure of where he was going. He didn't know the city very well, but he figured that if he did some wandering, it might help him clear his head. If all else failed, he knew how to get back to Central Park. His feet carried him forward, yet his mind was far away, lost in the never ending tangled web of thoughts.

Cursing under his breath, he shook his head. He had blown it. Why couldn't he have just acted charming and simply taken her signature without having to ask questions? Instead, he had to act like a complete dork. _Still, _he had been taken by surprise. Anyone in his position probably would have responded in the same manner. He certainly didn't expect _that _person to have been the famous Britannica Rosewood. In fact, it seemed impossible.

Freddie finally halted his inner monologue when he looked up and found that he had entered Central Park. His gaze drifted around the area, taking in the sight of random strangers. He smiled at a couple walking past with their canine friend on a leash.

Spotting a bench that was a few feet away, he chose to plant himself there for the time being. He plopped down on the seat and placed the books next to him.

He was curious to see what she had written in his books. She probably just signed her name (that's what authors did, after all, at book signings), but he was hopeful that she would have at least said something other than her name. Or, maybe she signed it with her _real _name.

Picking up _The Raging Storm, _he flipped it open to the inside cover. Instead of a simple signature, there was a small note.

_Freddie, _it said.

_If you want me to explain, meet me at 1489 Longstreet Ave. Apartment #7. Knock twice, and I'll answer. Do it today at 5:00 this evening. If no explanation is necessary, don't come. _

_-Sam _

A sharp gasp left Freddie's mouth. It really _was _Sam. He had a strong feeling when he was in the store, but her note confirmed his suspicions. He quickly scanned the other two books she had signed, but the name, 'Britannica Rosewood' were the only words present.

He gently closed each book and slouched on the bench. Rubbing his suddenly tired eyes, he wondered how the hell he ended up this situation. He was supposed to be in NYC for work, for crying out loud! Not to get tangled up with Sam again.

Granted, he had already completed his task; he had spent the past three days checking in with the New York branch, and all was well. He was set to fly out tomorrow to return home, but he was taking today to enjoy himself. Sight-seeing and eating an extravagant meal at one of the many excellent restaurants were definitely on the agenda, and so was seeing his favorite author. Of course, his plans immediately went out the window as soon his eyes met Sam's. Then again, she always did manage to botch up his plans.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself. "Why does she have to do this to me?"

An inquiring '_woof' _answered him. He glanced down and found a cute dog staring back at him, wagging his tail eagerly. From the looks of him, he appeared to be a golden retriever and poodle mix.

Freddie's heart melted; he had always had a soft spot for the canine variety. Reaching down, he ran his hand along the dog's head, moving to scratch underneath his chin. He really liked that because his tail began to wag faster. A pink tongue shot out from his mouth to lick Freddie's hand appreciatively.

"You're a good boy," Freddie cooed, continuing to pet the dog. "What I wouldn't give to be you for a day. I bet it's easier just running around a park, fetching sticks and a ball, than it is to deal with an old flame, hm?" He bent lower, leaning in to nuzzle the gentle creature.

"I wouldn't necessarily say that. Dogs can have a tough time, too," a laughing voice said behind him.

He whirled around to find a teenage girl in jogging apparel, holding an empty leash in hand. She smirked, gesturing to the dog.

"Looks like you made a friend there," she said.

Chuckling good-naturedly, Freddie patted the furry animal. "Yeah, I guess I have. I'm assuming he's yours?"

She nodded, the motion flinging her red hair, which was tied into a ponytail, around.

"Yes, Sir. Oscar's mine." She smiled briefly before a concerned look flitted across her features. "Having a rough day?"

Running a hand through his hair, he shrugged. "Define 'rough.' If 'rough' implies randomly seeing an old love of mine and then being invited to catch up with her at her apartment, even though I'm engaged to someone else, then yes, it's been a rough day."

"Sheesh. No wonder you tried to seek comfort in Oscar." She ran her hand through the dog's thick coat of fur. "Although, he does make great company."

"Yes, he does." Freddie nodded, feeling his lips quirk into a smile. "Anyway, I should probably go. Thanks for letting me play with your dog. It sort of helped." He turned to leave with his books tucked under his arm, but the girl's voice stopped him.

"Wait. You still look disgruntled. C'mon. Have a seat and we can talk about it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why in the world do you want to hear an old man's problems? You're young. You probably have a life to go live."

She shrugged. "Nah. My idea of a good time is going on a run with my dog." Grinning, she pointed to Oscar. Picking up a stick from the ground, she threw it far into the distance. With a delighted, '_woof'_, Oscar took off, chasing after it.

Freddie resumed his spot on the bench and stacked the books beside him. He waited for her to continue.

As soon as Oscar was far enough away, she sat down and said, "I'm not really a conventional teenage girl. Instead of cruising to the mall and talking about the hottest boys in the school, I'm at home, either studying literature or writing code." At Freddie's pointed look, she clarified, "Computer nerd."

Laughing to himself, he said, "Let me guess, Oscar is named after Oscar Wilde?"

Excitement lit up the girl's eyes. "Yes! How'd you know?"

A smile spread on Freddie's lips. "I had a feeling. He's one of my favorite writers, too."

"That's awesome." She nudged his shoulder with hers. "Look, I'm not afraid of you. I know I'm supposed to super cautious around strangers, but hey, the CEO of Pear should be safe, right?"

Confusion colored Freddie's eyes. "How did you know—"

"Computer nerd, remember? Of _course_ I know who you are. In my opinion, Pear is the best technological company out there. You've done a great job with the company since taking over as CEO."

Freddie fought against a blush that was threatening to bloom across his cheeks. "Well, thank you. I appreciate the fact that you enjoy Pear. The more positive feedback we receive from people, the harder the company works to maintain that image. That's what makes it grow. I am a bit surprised that you're willing to talk to me, however. It's not every day that a teenager actually wants to speak to an ancient, rattled adult."

Scoffing, the girl nudged him again. "You're not _that _old. I mean, your hair is still brown. You have a couple of grey strands, but they're hardly noticeable. No cane, either, so you're good. But, I will say that my mom and dad are around your age, and they were both fans of the webshow, iCarly. You were the technical producer, correct?"

Freddie nodded, feeling nostalgic. "Yes, that is correct. Now I'm really feeling old. I did iCarly ages ago. Wait, how old are you? If I may be so bold as to ask."

"Sixteen. Just turned a few days ago."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Freddie let out a chuckle. "You're certainly mature for sixteen. When I was your age, I was as awkward as ever."

Oscar chose to return in that moment, happily carrying the stick in his soft mouth. The girl smiled in response, grabbing the moist piece of wood. She gave him a wink before tossing it again, buying her some time to talk to the man sitting beside her. When Oscar left for the second time, she turned to smirk at Freddie.

"Mr. Benson, I mean this as nicely as possible, but you're still awkward. If you can't even figure out whether or not to meet an old girlfriend at the age of thirty-eight, then you have some issues."

Freddie was about to open his mouth to protest, but he quickly shut it.

"You are a perceptive, sneaky brat." He smiled fondly. "Your bluntness is admirable," he admitted as an afterthought.

"Thanks, Mr. Benson. Anyway, you need to sort yourself out. You're clearly conflicted."

"She wasn't my girlfriend," he said suddenly, frowning. "We never made it to that point. I was in love with her at the time, but I'm not entirely sure she felt the same way."

"Well, how do you know that? Did she say the words, '_I don't love you.'_?"

Freddie shook his head. "No. She didn't say that in so many words, but the meaning was there. It was obvious the day she ran away from me." Sighing heavily, he slouched in his seat.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Benson." The girl touched his arm in a comforting gesture. "That sucks."

"Well said."

"Want to hear my opinion?" she asked hopefully.

"Sure. What do I have to lose?"

Giggling, she nodded. She sobered up in the next second and said in a slightly solemn tone, "I think you should talk to her. I know you have a fiancée and all, but this is harmless. Your former love probably just wants to explain what happened. If things start to heat up between you two, you need to tell her that you're going to marry someone else. End of story."

Rubbing his face, Freddie felt a rush of fatigue wash over him. "It's not that simple, kid. She's—she's a lot more complicated than that. Always has been."

The redhead snorted. "You need to grow a pair and talk to her. Otherwise, all the 'what-if's will torture you."

Arching an eyebrow, Freddie drawled, "_I _need to grow a pair? I'm a grown man, young lady. I can make own decisions, thank you very much."

Rolling her green eyes in a way that reminded him so much of Sam, the girl laughed. "_Right._ A grown man who is acting quite petulant, if I may so. You're not intimating, Mr. Benson. While you do manage every aspect about Pear, I know that you're not like other power-hungry CEOs. You're actually _nice_, so don't go thinking that you can scare me."

"Remember what I said about you being a brat? Yeah, I really meant that." He stuck his tongue out at her, trying his best to keep a straight face. He couldn't manage to secure it for long before he cracked a smile.

"A brat you happen to like. C'mon. I'm not _that _bad."

Chuckling softly, he grinned. "I guess you are correct in that sense." The grin dissolved into a more neutral expression after a moment. "I appreciate your advice, but this is a lot bigger than just me. It deals with _her_, too."

"So? Mr. Benson, it's clear to me that even though you're engaged, you still haven't gotten over your former love. Maybe this meeting will put those feelings to rest. Closure, you know?" She paused with a hesitant look on her face. With a bit of effort, she managed to get out, "My parents went through the same thing. They left off on a bad note when they finalized the divorce. After several years of silence on both ends, they finally talked it out. Now, they're doing okay. Don't you want that? To finally be okay?"

Grunting in response, Freddie crossed his arms over his chest. A few beats of silence followed where neither person spoke. After what seemed like forever, Freddie sighed.

"Forget computer science and literature, you should go into counseling," he announced wearily.

The girl's spirits immediately soared. "So, does that mean you're going to do it?"

"I—" He swallowed thickly. "I suppose. Maybe you're right. Maybe I just need to tie up some loose ends." He sounded tired, but there was an air of conviction to his tone.

Grinning smugly, she said, "I told you so."

He glared at her. "If this ends badly, it's all _your _fault. I will hold you responsible for the bodily damage done to me. I'll make sure to send the hospital bill to you when she breaks my face."

"Stop being such a baby," she retorted. "And I'm a broke teenage girl. You can pay your _own_ hospital bill."

He laughed. "Well played."

'_Woof'_ came the response, and Freddie glanced down to find that his furry friend had returned. Oscar dropped the stick at his feet, wagging his tail in happiness. Smiling, Freddie reached out to scratch behind the canine's ears.

"You should probably go now, Mr. Benson. It's not polite to keep a lady waiting."

He patted Oscar's head once more before turning back to the girl.

"Very true. And thank you for the help you've given me. I still cannot believe that I've been at the mercy of a sixteen-year-old, but in the face of it, worse things could have happened."

"Glad I could be of assistance." She smiled, holding out her hand.

Freddie took her hand for a firm shake. Releasing it after a moment, he said, "Good day, Miss…" He trailed off, his brows furrowing. "I realize that I never caught your name."

Her green eyes twinkled with mirth. "My name is Amanda Gibson."

A feeling of surprise bubbled in Freddie. "Amanda Gibson? As in, Gibby and Wendy's daughter?"

Giggling, she nodded. "The one and only."

A fond smile spread across Freddie's mouth. "I haven't seen you since you were born. I was there for your parents' wedding and the day Wendy gave birth to you. And now look at you. You're a mature, young lady who actually gave _me_ advice." An incredulous laugh escaped him.

She shrugged. "My parents taught me well."

He would have smiled, but a sobering thought crossed his mind at the revelation that his old high school friends were Amanda's parents.

"So, they're not together anymore?" he asked carefully.

A flash of sadness appeared in Amanda's eyes for the briefest second. "No. Mom and Dad have been divorced for five years. I was ten when they separated, but a few months after my eleventh birthday, they announced that the divorce was final. I spend time with Mom on the weekdays and Dad on the weekends. They have shared custody of me."

Sympathy stabbed Freddie in the heart. "I'm sorry to hear that, Amanda. I really am."

Amanda raised her right shoulder in a way that said, '_Well, what can you do?'_

"It's all right," she murmured. "I've had quite a bit of time to heal. It's comforting to know that they were happy once upon a time. Very happy. But, sometimes, happiness has an expiration date."

Freddie wanted to disagree, but he knew it wouldn't have helped if he was overly optimistic. He did agree with her, after all. Sometimes, happiness was only a dream and not a reality.

"You're right," he said softly.

She seemed to appreciate how he didn't jump in witha completely positive response.

She added, "Anyway, I understand why they got a divorce. They just got burned out in their relationship. Mom and Dad tied the knot when they were only twenty, and two years later, I was born. They became real adults fairly quickly and I think that's what caused them to fall out of love. Plus, Dad is pretty weird to begin with." She laughed, shaking her head. "I watched some old webisodes of iCarly. It's a wonder why Mom fell for him in the first place."

"It made us wonder, too," Freddie chuckled. "It's a shame I lost contact with them. They were great friends."

"You could always call my parents," Amanda suggested. "They probably wouldn't like hanging out together, but if you make separate appointments, I'm sure they'd have a cup of coffee with you. Or, if you have a couple of business cards with you, I can give one to Mom and one to Dad, and they'll call you on their own terms."

Freddie nodded. "That works." He reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Sliding it out, he flipped it open to snatch two cards. Handing them to Amanda, he smiled. "Thank you, Amanda. It has been a pleasure getting a chance to know you. Please take care of yourself, okay?"

"I'll only make that promise if you man up and go talk to the woman you're clearly not over." She eyed him with demanding stare.

Sighing, he flung his arms up in defeat. "Okay, fine. You got me. I'm going." He gave her a wave, lifted his books from the bench, and sauntered off, in search of Sam's apartment.

Glancing at his watch, he thanked the heavens that he still had twenty minutes before he had to appear on her doorstep. New York City was a rather large place, and Freddie was certain he would probably take a wrong turn or two before stumbling across the apartment complex.

As it turned out, he was right.

Somehow, he managed to stroll through a couple of dodgy looking allies, a small park, and up and around Times Square before finally locating a quaint apartment complex. It was close enough to a few busy streets, but far enough away that there was a peaceful quality to it.

Looking up at the big building, Freddie gulped, feeling his stomach begin to flutter. He cursed under his breath for having been pushed into doing this, but the more rational side knew that this was the right choice. He released a shaky breath and stamped down his obvious anxiety. Hurrying inside, he waved a hand at the doorman, who smiled in return.

"Excuse me, Sir, where would I find apartment number seven?" he inquired politely. "I'm meeting a friend, and this is my first time to this apartment complex."

The man in the navy blue suit with gold buttons and matching hat replied, "If you take the elevator or the stairs up to the third floor, make a right turn as soon as you exit, the apartment will be right there."

"Thank you."

A couple of minutes later, Freddie found himself standing in front of a door made out of fine dark wood. A golden _**7**_was etched on the wood in beautiful calligraphy.

With all of the courage he could muster (which at this point, wasn't much), he rapped his knuckles twice on the door.

Several beats of silence followed. Panic began to set into the pit of Freddie's stomach, twisting his insides. He couldn't help but wonder if this was all a joke. She probably just wanted to humiliate him—she had always had a knack for that.

A feeling of betrayal zapped through his system, causing an angry scowl to form on his face. He was about to walk away when the door suddenly swung open.

Piercing blue eyes stared into his brown ones.

"You came," she whispered in awe.

He nodded, completely struck silent. He gaped at her, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

"Come in," she said quietly, opening the door wider for him to step inside.

Her words seemed to snap him out of the trance. He closed his mouth and shuffled forward.

Once he entered the apartment, he couldn't help but notice how flawless it looked. He had expected clothes to be strewn about, dishes piled up in the sink, and cobwebs and dust clinging to surfaces. That was how her house had looked when she was young, but _this _was a shock to him.

It was modern and chic—something that could have been in one of those 'redesign your house' kind of magazines. Everything was spotless; not even the magazines on the coffee table were out of place. The walls were a clean, crisp white, decorated with pictures of modern art. The furniture was either cream colored or warm brown, and the table in the dining room was made out of the same dark wood that the door was. A flat-screened TV rested on a black lacquered table. Next to it, on the wall, was a glass case filled with DVDs and CDs.

"Do you like it?" she asked nonchalantly, but Freddie could tell that underneath the detachment lay actual interest.

"It's beautiful," he told her honestly.

Shifting his attention from the apartment to her, he found that she had changed out of her formal skirt and blouse. Instead, she wore flattering, medium wash jeans that hugged her curves in the right places, and a heather grey cardigan with a white tank top beneath it. She looked a lot more relaxed now, instead of the stiff image she was at the book signing.

_God, _Freddie thought. _She's gorgeous. _

"Would you like to sit?" She gestured toward the comfortable looking suede sofa that was pushed against one of the walls.

"Sure."

He wanted to cringe at his inability to form words at the moment. He normally didn't have a problem with it, considering he saw and spoke with people all of the time for his job. But, of course, nothing was normal when it came to Sam.

Gathering his courage, he walked to the sofa and plopped down. The softness immediately enveloped him, causing him to wonder how it would feel to fall asleep on it. He speculated that it would have been incredibly soothing, especially if he had a certain woman snuggled in his arms…

He stopped his brain from continuing with that train of thought.

"I can prepare some tea for us," she remarked, standing in front of him and pointing towards the kitchen. "If you want," she added as a second thought.

"You drink tea?"

She nodded, a ghost of smile on her lips. "Yes, as hard as it is to imagine. Don't worry; I drink _plenty _of coffee, too. And a glass of scotch, or two, if I'm having bad day. Tea is good for calming the nerves. It's even good for concentration when I need to write."

"Tea would be lovely. I don't care what kind—I'll drink whatever you have."

She mentally made note of that and walked the few feet to the kitchen to start the kettle.

As Freddie waited for her to return, he took another look around the living space. His eyes settled on a beat-up, brown leather-bound journal laying on the coffee table. Picking it up, he flipped open the inside to find Sam's familiar handwriting. It appeared that this was her notebook of ideas for her novels. He found character charts, lists with various plots, and detailed explanations of thoughts. Scanning through the thick volume, he noticed that most of the pages had already been filled.

"Don't read that. It's all scribbles and nonsense," a voice said, causing him to lift his eyes from the page he was currently on.

Sam carried a silver tray with two large cups and a small dish of miniature scones. Placing the tray on the table, she backed away, dropping into the armchair that sat opposite of Freddie.

He set the journal aside, shrugging. "I think it's interesting." He was, of course, referring to the words written on the pages of the journal. His gaze shifted, taking in the sight of the tea and scones. A smirk curved at his lips. "Are we British now?"

A mischievous glint reflected in her ocean-blue eyes.

"I think so," she answered in an appropriate British accent.

He chose to play along, mimicking her accent. "Very well, Ms. Puckett." Grabbing onto his own cup, he raised it into the air. "To us," he said in his normal voice before taking a sip of the scalding beverage.

Sighing, she leaned back into her seat. Instead of touching her cup of tea, she opted for training her eyes on Freddie in a cautious manner. She wasn't the type to beat around the bush, and this instance was no exception.

"You have a lot of questions."

Freddie knew he couldn't do this with hot tea in his hands, so he set down the drink.

"Yes."

She motioned to him with her hand. "Go on."

"I don't know where to start," he admitted, glancing at her helplessly.

"Let's talk about something simple first. As in, don't ask about the writing thing just yet."

"Okay…" He drew out a breath. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees. "Why do you look so different?"

Her answer came quickly. "When I selected writing as a career, I wanted to be someone different. I didn't want people to recognize me from college, or from iCarly, or any other previous activity. When I spoke with my agent, he agreed that a new image was in order. I dyed my hair a few years ago and continue to straighten it every day. I also have a whole closet full of formal attire. I usually never wear jeans, unless I'm here by myself."

She paused, allowing him time to process the information. She reached for her cup of tea and gulped some of the liquid before placing it back on the tray.

"If it helps, you look…amazing."

A blush colored her cheeks, making her appear even more stunning. Freddie had never seen her look so _bashful _before. He decided that he liked it.

"Thank you," she answered, seemingly embarrassed.

"Does it feel…weird? You know, with a whole new identity and image to keep up?"

She shrugged. "No, not really. Sometimes it surprises me when I am called Britannica, but for the most part, I'm so accustomed to it that I don't even hesitate. In the professional world, my agent is the only person who knows my legal name. It's a little scary looking at myself in the mirror every morning, though. I miss the blonde hair. It suited me better." Her lips curved into a sad smile.

He nodded in understanding. While she made a beautiful brunette, her blonde waves were essential to who she was. She had been the 'blonde-headed demon' for so long that anything else felt out of place.

"So, what name do you want me to call you?"

She laughed, the sweet and silvery sound echoing in his ears. He suddenly wished that she laughed more often.

"Sam's just fine. Actually, I prefer it over the pseudonym."

Feeling that there wasn't quite so much tension in the air, Freddie decided to reach for a scone. He ate quietly, savoring the sugary taste as he thought of the next question. After several moments of chewing and contemplating, he finally knew what he wanted to ask.

"Why did you choose the name Britannica Rosewood? I mean, I like it, but it's certainly different than the terse 'Sam Puckett.'"

Another laugh bubbled from her lips, making Freddie's heart clench on its own accord.

"You see, I was more academically driven in college." She stopped her sentence when Freddie gave her a weary look. "It's really true!" she said, smiling. "Anyway, I decided to clean up my act after months of struggling. I figured that studying might actually benefit me. So, I spent most of my days in the library during the second semester of freshmen year. I became great friends with the Encyclopedia Britannica. When I selected my pseudonym, I wanted to reference the days I spent pouring over the encyclopedia. As for the last name, Rosewood is a specific brand of tea that I like. In fact, we're drinking Rosewood tea right now."

Freddie chuckled. "Clever," he conceded, grinning.

She smiled in return and cleared her throat. "Any more questions before I begin to answer the most imposing one?"

His shoulders tensed slightly. There was one thing he needed to know, but it was even more challenging to ask (and probably to answer) than speaking of her writing career.

Quietly, he asked, "What happened to you _that _night?"

A flash of understanding appeared in her eyes.

"I think I'd rather talk about my choice in careers. Discussing that…it's still quite touchy. Perhaps after I explain the writing ordeal, then maybe you'll begin to see why."

Raising an eyebrow in response, Freddie said, "I'm all ears."

"You know that I've never been much for words." At her statement, Freddie nodded. "When I was kid, I used violence and snarky remarks to get my point across. Words merely existed to anger and frustrate me. I believed that they had no purpose until I discovered that I had an interest in writing in college."

Rising from her seat, she began to pace. She wrung her hands several times, stared at the ceiling now and then, and didn't utter another word for few tense minutes.

Finally, she opened her mouth to say, "During the first couple of years at the University of Washington, I really didn't know what I wanted to study. I must have changed majors a hundred times." She laughed bitterly, continuing to pace. "I was in and out of various classrooms, begging professors for guidance on what to do with my life. And…then one day, I decided to take a creative writing class. For the first time, words made _sense. _Mind you, it was the most challenging and gut-wrenchingly painful class I had while there, but it was worth it."

She was going to say more, but Freddie couldn't help himself from jumping in with a question.

"Why was it so hard?" he asked, curiosity lighting up his brown eyes.

She slowed her pacing down so that it wasn't quite as frantic. Standing behind her chair, she placed her palms on the top of it. She gazed at him with a soft expression, which caused a pleasant shiver to run along his spine.

"I was terrible at writing at first." Her lips, which had remained in a neutral line, quirked into a small smile. "I failed almost all of the assignments because I couldn't pen down any thoughts. Fortunately, the professor was empathetic, despite being a tough grader. So, I went to her after class, asking her what I needed to do to improve. To this day, I remember what she said. 'Sam, you need to cut the crap. You're thinking way too hard. That's why you're not getting anything done. Just throw stuff on paper. That's the key to writing.'"

"And you listened to that? Doesn't sound too much like advice," Freddie scoffed.

"It was the best advice I have ever received. After that meeting, I just…wrote. I wrote everything. Over time, I learned to edit my own work and condense what I had to say. Nevertheless, I gained a passion for it. I double majored in creative writing and English literature as the result."

"Wow," Freddie breathed.

"When I graduated, I did a little bit of writing. Small things, of course, because you obviously have to build up some skills before writing extensive pieces. I wrote a column for the local newspaper and a couple of articles in magazines. They were published under my legal name, which is why no one knows that Britannica Rosewood actually did petty works before hitting it big." She smiled briefly. "But, writing still hadn't become a full occupation at that point. I mainly worked in a bookstore to pay the bills. But, I kept hoping that maybe one day, one of my pieces would end up on those shelves." A flash of nostalgia appeared in her stormy blue eyes.

After listening in silent awe, Freddie worked up the nerve to say, "Please go on. I really want to know more. How did you finally get around to publishing your first novel?"

To buy herself some time, she took a polite sip of tea from her cup. She cleared her throat, almost in a nervous fashion.

"_The Raging Storm _started as a pet project. I was tired of writing nonfiction, so I thought I would try my hand at fictional writing. When I had my evenings free, I typed out some thoughts. It took me exactly four years to finish _The Raging Storm._ I honestly didn't think it was that good, but a coworker at the bookstore read it within a few days. She told me that I should have an agent look at it." She took a breath, running a hand through her brown locks.

"I searched on the Internet for months to find someone that was willing to glance at it. Finally, I caught the attention of James Brownstone. Unfortunately, he lived in New York, and I was still in Seattle. Nevertheless, I sent him a sample of the story, and to my complete and utter dismay, he found it fascinating. He booked a plane ticket for a week later for me to visit him. And well, now I'm here." An impish grin overtook her lips, as she fiddled with the buttons of her cardigan.

"It happened just like that?"

She nodded. "I'm giving you the short version, but yes. Together, James and I found publishing and editing teams to help fix the story. Eventually, the end product became a best-seller."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Freddie grinned widely. "I cannot believe that the Sam Puckett I have known my entire life wrote _The Raging Storm._ It's my favorite novel of all time. I love your sequels, too, but the first absolutely took my breath away."

That beautiful, soft blush painted Sam's cheeks again. "I—I don't know what to say. I'm flattered, Freddie. You would think that after years of receiving praise on my work, I would be used to it. But, every time someone even compliments it, I get all flustered."

At her words, Freddie winked. "There's nothing wrong with being humble."

"I suppose not," she responded lightly.

Despite the rather uplifting mood, Freddie knew he had to address the elephant in the room.

He tried to keep his expression void of emotion, for fear that she would feel uncomfortable if he were to act accusatory. He schooling his features into a neutral mask.

"You left because you didn't know how to tell me how you felt."

It wasn't a question, and Sam knew that.

She nodded stiffly, a frown replacing her radiant smile.

"Yes."

Freddie continued. "You knew what you were feeling, but you physically couldn't come up with the words. That's why you said that they wouldn't leave your throat. They were stuck."

"Yes."

Anxiety began to cloud Freddie's thoughts. His leg bounced up and down, as he struggled to say the next statement.

"You…you ran away because you were afraid that if those three words had been said, everything would have become a reality. That our love would have become real. That I would have _stayed_ for you. Right?"

She swallowed thickly. "Yes."

He closed his eyes, leaning back against the soft cushions of the sofa. Folding his hands across his chest, he heaved the most pitiful sounding sigh.

"Now it's too late," Sam finished for him.

He popped one eye open. "What?"

"It's too late," she repeated.

He opened his other eye, staring at her in confusion.

She smiled sadly. "It's too late because you're engaged and you have everything you've ever wanted. You love being the CEO of Pear, but you love_ her_ even more than your job. And that's saying something. You can't possibly have room in your heart to love me as well. I understand that perfectly."

"Sam, let me explain—"

"Freddie," she interrupted. "There's no need. I understand."

He hung his head in defeat. "You didn't say anything that night. I would have _stayed._"

"I know. And that's why I'm glad that I was completely inarticulate back then. You probably don't even realize how grateful I am that things played out the way that they did."

He gazed at her, the hurt obvious in his eyes. She may have understood, but he certainly didn't. Silence stretched between them, thick and tension filled.

"I don't…I don't understand," he said at last.

A bittersweet laugh left her mouth. "Freddie, you would have made the biggest mistake of your life if you had stayed. You moved onto bigger and better things. You did what was right for _you._ I made my own decisions. We chose different paths, and you know what? We're _both _happy. That's what's important."

"But—but don't you want a 'happily-ever-after'?" He paused then added in a whimpering tone, "With me?"

Her eyes flickered with sadness. In a gentle voice she said, "No, I don't want that, Freddie. I told you twenty years ago that life is not a Disney movie. People don't just ride off into the sunset and fall into each other's arms. _Life _is not like that. As a writer, I'm capable of creating a world where romance easily blossoms and grows, butreality is entirely different. You just have to learn to accept it."

Shame ran through him, hot and blinding. He _knew _that. He understood it clearly. Still, it didn't mean he had to like it at all.

He couldn't meet her eyes, so he stared at the cream colored carpet instead.

"I'm engaged," he stated softly. "To someone that's not you."

She touched his shoulder, causing him to glance at her face.

"Yes, you are. And she's the luckiest woman in the world. She loves you and you love her. You two will have an incredible marriage. You _cannot_ and _will not_ give that up in order to pursue something with me that will not result in anything."

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

"I'm a writer. The only things I _can _love are words. I don't have the time or the determination to be with anyone. I _tried, _I really did. But, every relationship I had ended when I left. When it comes down to it, I'm going to pick writing over anything. I feel _safe _and _happy_ when I write. I'm free and alive when I'm writing, traveling to promote my work, or appearing for book signings and talks. I _like_ interacting with others and spreading the love of reading. Writing…it's a part of who I am. That's just the way it is."

With quite a bit of effort, Freddie choked out, "You'd pick writing over me?" He dug his hands into the upholstery, waiting for her answer.

There was no hesitation when she answered, "Yes."

He could feel a part of his heart crumble at her words. "Well, I have my answer then."

"You love her," she emphasized. "Don't throw that away simply because you think that there may still be something between us. That was twenty years ago, Freddie. Things change."

He nodded. "I know. It doesn't make it any easier, though."

Against her better judgment, her lips quirked into a small smile. "I know. Life isn't easy, but that's what makes it worth living. If it was a Disney movie, there'd be nothing to look forward to. There would be no surprises, no spontaneity. You'd already know the ending before the story even began."

He looked at her hopefully. "Can we write an ending to our story?"

She pursed her lips in thought. After a moment, she shook her head.

"Not an ending that we'd both be satisfied with. And that's why we _don't _have a story together. You already started writing your story with your fiancée. It's your job to finish it with her."

He sighed. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I'm just—"

"Stuck in the past," she finished for him. "I know."

His lips twitched into a smile, even though the situation was far from amusing.

"This is it then, isn't it? A final goodbye?"

"Yes, I think it is. It's closure, Freddie. Now you know why I ran away. You can move on, live your life, and love your fiancée with all of your heart. She deserves all of you."

He agreed whole-heartedly. It wasn't fair to Anna to have him love her _and _Sam. It wasn't done that way.

Sam was giving him the go-ahead. He had never realized that he needed her blessing, but now that she had given it, he felt…better. Relieved.

"How did you figure out I'm engaged?" He was baffled; it wasn't as if he had mentioned Anna in conversation.

She laughed. "It wasn't hard to guess. I know you, and I know what you want: a beautiful and brilliant wife, a large house that's far enough away from the city where you can have gardens to stroll in but close enough that you'll be near work, a white picket fence, 2.4 children, and possibly a dog. It's just surprising that you're almost 40 and you haven't completed these goals yet." A smirk lined her lips, making her appear like her normal self.

He shrugged. "It took me a while to find her and even longer to propose. You're right, though. I _do_ picture myself with that lifestyle."

She laughed again, and suddenly, Freddie didn't feel quite so heartbroken.

"Best of luck to you," she said. "I know that you'll get there someday."

"Thank you."

He smiled, then glanced at his watch. The air between them had finally become tranquil, and he felt that he could part on good terms with her. He knew that if he stayed any longer, more questions would be asked and more answers would be given. He was certain that they were capable of falling into old patterns. That's not what he needed. He _didn't_ need her in that way anymore.

She was right—he had to move on. He had to go live his life without continuing to look behind him to see if she would be there.

"I should go," he announced quietly. Sam nodded at his assessment.

He rose from his seat and made his way towards the front door. She stood up, following silently behind him.

He stopped, turning around to face her. "Sam, can I ask you something? You know, before I disappear for good."

That same sad smile touched her lips. "Ask me anything."

"You did love me, right? I wasn't just imagining it that night?"

"Freddie, I—"

No words came out, so she shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she said instead, clearly frustrated. "Even after all this time, I can't say it. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." His tone was very bittersweet. "I understand."

He leaned in and brushed his lips softly against her cheek. Her eyes drifted close, reveling in the feel of the gesture.

"Goodbye, Sam," he whispered.

With one last look, his hand wrapped around the doorknob, pulling it open. He quickly exited her apartment and the apartment complex.

As he made his way onto the street, he felt a sense of déjà vu. But, this time, he was the one walking away. He wasn't sure if fate was simply being cruel, or if it was being kind.

Whichever it was, there wasn't a single thing he could do to change it. He had made his choices and she had made hers. At least now, he could _finally _move on and heal.

He smiled this time, a smile that wasn't tinged with sorrow. It was real, genuine smile.

* * *

**May 9, 2034 **

A sharp knock sounded from the door of Samantha Puckett's study. She glanced up from her computer screen.

"Come in," she answered.

The wooden door swung open to reveal James, dressed in his usual black suit and crimson colored tie.

"Sam," he said urgently. "I need that dedication page. If we're going to send your next novel to the publishing company, you need to figure out who it is you're dedicating it to."

She smiled, noting James' hysterical tone. In a soothing voice, she said, "Calm down, James. I'll have it for you this afternoon. After much thought, I've finally decided."

He sighed with relief, slouching against her desk. "You have no idea how glad I am that you've selected a person already. It usually takes you _forever_." He laughed unsteadily, wiping at his forehead.

"Well, I've been thinking about it for a while. If you come by again in a few hours, it'll be ready."

"That is perfect, Sam." His eyes flickered to her empty tea cup. "Can I prepare another cup of tea for you before I take my leave?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

"My pleasure." He smiled and shuffled out the room.

Sam returned her attention to the computer screen, fingers floating over the keyboard. After a moment's hesitation, she started typing.

* * *

**July 9, 2034 **

It had taken Freddie several months to work up the courage to return to a bookstore. He knew that as soon as he did, he would feel the need to look among the bookshelves to see if Sam had written anything else. Despite making vow to himself to stop thinking about her, he hadn't promised that he would give up entirely on her books. She was still his favorite author, after all.

After returning from his trip to New York, he and Anna had been busy planning the wedding. The event came and went, and looking back on it, he had no idea how he was able to live through it. Weddings were stressful, no matter how big or small. Nevertheless, he was glad that the madness was finally over so that he could enjoy his time with his lovely wife.

Of course, he had relented one Tuesday afternoon. He chose to come home early due to the pounding headache that had formed after a grueling meeting.

For whatever reason, he decided to make a stop at the bookstore, instead of heading straight home. Perhaps reading a magazine or something would help him relax. Upon arriving, he stumbled across a table that contained the most recently published books. His eyes raked over the choices and finally landed on _The Swirling Inferno, _a novel written by Britannica Rosewood_. _His fingers snatched it and he headed towards the cash register without any hesitation.

As soon as he was safely home, he slouched on leather sofa that rested in the center of the spacious living room. He eagerly opened the novel, ready to tear through the story.

Normally, he would have skipped over the dedication page, but he was curious this time. Since he actually knew the true identity of the author, he wondered who she had picked for the current piece of work.

When his gaze dropped down to the page, his eyes widened. For the words, so clearly etched on the page, made his heart stop.

_**Dedicated to F.B.—my first and only love. **_

Freddie closed the book and cradled it to his chest. His eyes drifted to the nearby window. He stared outside, looking at the bright blue sky. He thought of blue eyes in that moment. Blue eyes that were piercing, haunting. Ones that could break your heart, but give you a surge of hope at the same time.

She didn't have to say it aloud for him to understand. He knew. And having that knowledge was enough. God, it was more than enough.

With a smile that could have lit up the entire city, he cracked open the novel and began reading.

* * *

_**See? Not so full of angst at the end. Maybe one day, I'll get back to writing something fluffy for Seddie ;) Until then, please let me know what your thoughts are regarding this story. **_


End file.
